| Before the Greeks and the creeks, before you could stand | 
| Before your hands from your feet, from a band or a beat | 
| We would stand on the street, with our hand on our heat | 
| Twelve grams, twelve feet away, balled up in a sheet | 
| Of Reynold’s wrap, one smack, leaves your dentals back | 
| Your voice get quiet like the voice in the instrumental track | 
| Slick from the lip lisp, son, sip the citrus | 
| My voice unfolds, with the soul of The Whispers | 
| On the block, we rock loud like The Pistols | 
| Up in the crib, my wiz drinkin' a Harvey’s Bristol | 
| Natural flavor, yours be artificial | 
| I blow holes in skin, like big nose through snotty tissue | 
| They go berserk, when the dollar dollar bill is on | 
| The thrill is gone… upgrade to the silicone | 
| That’s worth the four billion, eight hundred milli-on | 
| It’s not official until I smack the W, silly on | 
| From the valleys of Ohio, to the sands of Cairo | 
| Still hit like the whirlwind kick of Ryu | 
| Zig-Zag-Zig Allah, still puzzled like the jigsaw | 
| You renege, you get jigged, pa | 
| Pete Rock exclusive | 
| We bogard the road, like trucks on the turnpike | 
| Smoke by the load, just to see what it burns like | 
| Architectural design, intellectual rhyme | 
| The bishop strike, movin' on a diagonal line | 
| The rook’s trapped, scholars they want the books back | 
| The piece, they turn us off, the moment they look back | 
| The castling position, made weak by a wing pawn | 
| Knights lose armor from the pressure we bring on | 
| They fired all these shots in the rhymes with mad flares | 
| Kept a cramped game, many posted on bad squares | 
| The king’s the kick, the queen’s the snare | 
| The bass are minor pieces that move in a pair | 
| Quick to break through; | 
| an unparalleled opponent | 
| I do it on the regular, at any given moment | 
| Check the venue, those who make the saga continue | 
| Before you check the credits, the swords is all in you | 
| It’s real… it’s real… it’s real… it’s real… |